The Randolph Ghost
by paperbkryter
Summary: Clark, Chloe and Pete investigate a haunted house. Please apply the usual disclaimers.


The Randolph Ghost  
  
Clark Kent cut his last class of the day - biology. It was not unusual for him to do so, given he was far ahead of the rest of the class already and that Mr. Newton was fairly lenient with him. Mr. Newton knew, if the rest of the students didn't, that Clark could get up and teach the class if it were permitted. In the areas of math and science Clark couldn't be topped by any other student in the school, nor half the faculty. He'd been the winner of every science fair until the sixth grade, when he gained national attention for a detailed report regarding the infinite boundaries of the time-space continuum and how time travel was a distinct possibility. A magazine asked for an interview with the "Kansas Whiz Kid" and Jonathan Kent nearly had a stroke as a result. Clark conveniently missed the national competition by coming down with the "flu" and the whole incident was swept under the rug and forgotten. Since then Clark toned down his reports considerably. He still won the occasional science fair, but only to keep his competitors in check, and to keep the teachers happy. Happy teachers forgave cutting class.  
  
Thus instead of dissecting frogs, Clark was killing alien invaders. He sat at Chloe's desk with his legs propped up, a game control in his hands, playing a video game on Chloe's computer in the deserted Torch office. He was particularly impressed with this game, as it was proving to be a challenge when so many others were not. As a result of the speed and accuracy of his eye hand coordination whatever Clark aimed for he hit and he aimed for everything that came into view, making most games rather boring to him. The first time he'd played this game he'd missed an attacker, was summarily "killed", and it had so shocked him that he'd immediately become addicted. He played every chance he could.  
  
Each little flicker of Clark's thumb on the control button blew up scores of the slobbering green alien drones who's master had kidnaped his lady love. The irony of this was not lost on him, he simply chose not to think about it. When he did think about it, which was not often, the "escape via humor" lobe of his brain kicked in with an offended treatise regarding political correctness and E.T. bashing. The end result was a horrible case of the giggles followed by a queasy urge to throw up when the truth of the matter reared its ugly head. So he adopted a blank stare, blew up aliens, and pushed his own biological status to the back of his mind until he could deal with it without having a nervous breakdown.   
  
"Take that," he murmured.   
  
Clark heard the door creak open behind him, and with a quick motion, paused the game and brought up a document on the computer screen to cover up the incriminating evidence. He relaxed upon seeing Pete Ross enter, and immediately resumed the game.   
  
"Cutting Biology again Clark? That's twice this week."  
  
Clark shot his friend a broad grin, then shot an alien. "I have more important things to attend to."  
  
"I can see that. What level are you on?" Pete pulled up a chair and squinted at the screen.   
  
"Nine."  
  
Whistling, Pete sat back. "I'm impressed. You'll have Miranda rescued by next week!" He noisily poked through the stacks of papers Chloe had piled everywhere as Clark continued to play. Eventually his attention was drawn back to the screen. "So what happens at the end, do you know?"  
  
"I don't know. She probably throws her arms around you and says," Clark raised his voice into a high pitched squeak. "You're my hero!"   
  
Pete burst out laughing. "Have you talked to Chloe today?" he asked after a moment.  
  
Sucking in a breath, Clark squirmed in his chair as he narrowly missed being "killed". "No. I saw her in class, but didn't get a chance to talk to her. Why?"  
  
"She's on a roll, has our whole weekend mapped out for us already. Do you have a sleeping bag?"   
  
At this Clark paused the game and turned to look at his companion. "Oh no. What now?"  
  
"The Randolph house."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
Pete chuckled. "We're sleeping over tonight."  
  
"Oh brother." Clark rolled his eyes. "So now she's ghost hunting?"  
  
"Yep. She's determined to get the Randolph ghost on film." Grinning, Pete made a clicking gesture as if snapping a photograph.   
  
"How is this related to her meteor theory?"  
  
"Its not. She just heard the story from a friend of her dad and thought it was interesting. You know Chloe. If its out of this world, she loves it."  
  
"Its going to be a long night." Clark sighed.  
  
"Not if the ghost shows up."   
  
With a laugh Clark turned an incredulous stare on Pete and made a wry face. "You can't be serious! Don't tell me you believe in ghosts? Come on Pete!"  
  
Pete held up his hands. "Hey, all I know is that people have been talking about the Randolph place for years. My brother Jake tried to stay there with some buddies one night and he said they couldn't do it. He said there is definitely something in that house."   
  
Clark saved his game and began shutting down the computer. "Yeah, rats, raccoons and the occasional vagrant."   
  
Chloe's voice echoed across the room. "Do we have to start calling you 'Scully' Clark?" She clumped over to them burdened down with a backpack full of books, a bag of camera equipment, and a tripod. "You are such a skeptic."   
  
He rose to help her, and received thanks for it in the form of a broad grin and a pat. "Like a puppy," he thought, tagging along behind her with the backpack as she bustled through the room gathering folders, pens and a deck of cards to add to it. "Seeing is believing," he intoned.   
  
"Do you believe in gravity?" Chloe shot back.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But you can't see it can you?"  
  
"No, but there's evidence it exists. I'm not floating around the room."   
  
"At the moment." Clark added to himself with a wince.  
  
Chloe refused to be thwarted. "Many people believe that ghosts are manifestations of a certain type of electromagnetic energy released from someone at the time of death, particularly if they died as a result of violence." She turned abruptly and put her hands on her hips, facing Clark with an intense blue eyed stare. "And you should know that Mr. I'm-So-Good-At-Science-I-Don't-Go-To-Class." She paused, then glanced at her still humming computer. "What level are you on?"  
  
"Nine."  
  
She turned back with a broad grin and one of the folders from her desk. "Clark Kent you're my hero." Taking the backpack, she shoved the folder at him. "Read this and meet us at the Randolph place at eight. Bring a sleeping bag and a flashlight....Scully."   
  
*****************  
  
"Chloe really did her research." Martha Kent exclaimed as she and Clark perused the contents of Chloe's folder at the Kent's kitchen table. It contained article after article, dating from the turn of the century onward, written about the Randolph Family, the house, and the ghost legend. "Look at this stuff."  
  
"She's good at covering all her bases." Clark agreed. "I think she likes the research more than the reporting."  
  
Martha picked up one of the articles which had a picture of a beautiful Victorian farmhouse complete with wrap around porch and a low tower with a widows walk. She shook her head sadly. "Its a pity the Historical Society won't restore that old house. It's perfectly lovely."   
  
"Why don't they?" Clark leaned over to look at the photograph. He grinned. "Did the ghost object?"  
  
"No, nothing like that." Martha laughed. "The Historical Society bought the house, the barn and the last hundred acres of the farm primarily to thwart developers. After LuthorCorp opened the plant back in the eighties there was a building boom to provide housing for the workers. Most of the Randolph land was eaten up with cookie cutter housing projects." She concluded with a shrug. "Then the meteor shower hit, and preserving the old farm ceased to be a priority. The funds had to be allocated to restore other landmarks damaged by the meteors instead."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Martha turned and regarded him carefully as he bent his head over another article from the pile. "Clark don't," she said softly.   
  
He refused to look at her. "Don't what?"  
  
"Add another mark to your 'it's my fault' list." She rubbed his shoulder affectionately. "Honey, its just a run down old farmhouse."  
  
"I know."   
  
"You have to stop blaming yourself for every little thing those meteors did Clark. You didn't have anything to do with them."  
  
"How do you know that?" He turned his eyes to her, his brow knitted, his voice plaintive. "They came with me...."  
  
"Clark you were three years old! Could you have stopped whoever sent you from doing so? No! If the shower was triggered by whatever circumstances brought you here then its just a tragic coincidence, and feeling guilty about it will not change the fact that it happened. Its out of your hands Clark. You don't have anything to atone for, so stop. Just stop."   
  
Logically he knew she was right, but Clark couldn't let go of the guilt he felt. His mind always kept coming back to the "what if" questions and then onward to wondering how his continued presence might irrevocably change the lives of people on a world to which he did not belong. He felt some sort of Karmic misalignment needed to be adjusted, and he wasn't quite sure how he was to go about fixing the problem. Cassandra had said his destiny was to help people, but sometimes Clark wondered if in the bigger scheme of things he was actually correcting problems he had caused at the beginning. It was the ripple effect of his arrival, changing lives. If he hadn't come, would those people be needing help at all?  
  
And how could he help the long dead Randolph family?  
  
With a sigh he nodded, pushing such thoughts aside, as he knew that it upset his mother. In Martha's world dwelling on the past was playing against the rules and being the forward thinking person that she was, she didn't like it at all. Gathering himself back together, Clark favored her with a sweet smile. "Well, I suppose if they did restore the house it would loose something of its fear factor. Its a lot spookier being run down. Where would teenage kids in Smallville go for a good scare then?"  
  
"Your bedroom." Martha stated. "I cleaned under the bed this morning. Two pizza boxes, a dirty mug, several filthy socks and dust bunnies that belong on Ripley's Believe it or Not." She rose from her seat with a wry look and went to ready dinner.  
  
"Was it the Sharks mug? I was looking for that."  
  
Martha rolled her eyes to the ceiling in supplication.   
  
The screen door creaked and Jonathan Kent came in whistling. He paused in the kitchen to goose Martha affectionately, and then hastily spun out of her way as she turned to slap at him. He withdrew from the refrigerator two sodas, one of which he tossed to Clark and joined Clark at the table.   
  
"What's all this?" He picked up an article, scanned it, and made a face. "The Randolph Farm?"  
  
"Chloe's new project." Clark explained, ducking under the table to retrieve an article that had fallen there. He popped back up with the object of his quest and put it and the others back in the folder so he could help set the table for dinner. "She's ghost hunting now."   
  
"That's a good place to start." Jonathan shuddered.   
  
Clark raised an eyebrow at him.   
  
"Your father, " Martha appeared with dishes and silverware which she handed to Clark to distribute. "Is scared spit-less of the Randolph house."   
  
"Oh, you are not!" Clark's face split into a huge grin and he laughed as he saw the grave expression on Jonathan's. "You're serious?"  
  
Jonathan took a long drink from his soda. "Very serious," he said finally. "Some football buddies and I dared each other to sleep over at that house. Of course we all went, and never got further than the foyer before we turned tail and ran home. I've never been so frightened in my life."  
  
"What did you see?" Clark finished putting down the place settings and went into the kitchen to help Martha bring the food to the table. She let him pull the roasting pan out of the oven. He ignored her offer of the oven mitts.   
  
"Gerard Randolph." Jonathan said quietly, and Clark's eyes widened.  
  
The patriarch of the estate had been Gerard Randolph. He'd made his fortune in the California gold fields, invested wisely, and retired a very rich man. When he retired he decided to take up farming, and bought up a very large section of Lowell County Kansas upon which to do it. He'd built his lovely house, hired a group of young men to work his land, and took a popular local girl for a wife. All seemed very well and good for quite some time.   
  
Gerard Randolph, however, had always been an adventurous man, and had never before spent so much time in one location. He loved to travel, to see new places, and to be unfettered. Farming, even from a managerial position, tied him down. He began to chafe under his new domesticated lifestyle, but because he truly loved his sweet wife and new son, he remained on the farm. His unease began to manifest itself in bouts of depression, and eventually he started drinking heavily, much to the delight of the gossip mongers in town.   
  
Soon rumors started flying regarding Violet Randolph and the foreman of the farm, a man named Douglas. Violet had always been popular, pretty and outgoing, and after her marriage very little of that changed. Thus what was perceived as flirtatious behavior by some, was in actuality Violet's attempts to ease tensions between her increasingly irresponsible husband and his workers. She joked with Douglas, was seen talking to him frequently in public places, and was often out in the fields with him overseeing the farms production. Onlookers began circulating the rumor that Violet was having an affair and had, in fact, borne Douglas' child, not Gerard's.  
  
It was the typical tale of love and betrayal that befitted a ghost story. Gerard eventually heard the rumors, and due to his depressed mental state, which was compounded by the alcohol, he set out to confront Douglas regarding the truth of the matter. No one ever knew what passed between the two men during their drawing room conversation, but the fact that it ended badly was made very clearly evident the next day. As the servants woke and began to report to their duties, the horrors of the night were revealed.   
  
At one point during the argument, Gerard Randolph had removed the pick axe from above the drawing room fireplace; the same pick axe with which he'd made his fortune in California. In a fit of rage he had driven it into the unfortunate foreman's chest, instantly killing him. It was then that something in Gerard snapped, and trailing blood from the pick axe in his hands, he walked up the long staircase to murder his wife, her unborn child, and his two year old son. Upon finishing this gruesome deed, he'd taken the sash from his wife's dressing gown and with it, hung himself from the first floor balcony railing.   
  
It was the body of Gerard Randolph, hanging from the silken sash, that Jonathan Kent saw in the house some fifty years later.   
  
"At first all we saw was this white blur, like a patch of fog. " Jonathan said. "But soon we realized that there was more definition to its shape, and we saw that it was a man, in an old fashioned suit, hanging by the neck from the railing."   
  
"Overactive imaginations, the folly of youth, and too much beer." Martha set the last bowl on the table and herself in her chair.   
  
"I had one." Shaking his head, Jonathan began filling his plate. "I was stone cold sober. When that things eyes opened and it looked at me - I know it knew me."   
  
Clark paused in the act of spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate and stared at his father incredulously. "It looked at you?" His eyes narrowed. "Are you sure it wasn't someone playing a joke on you?"  
  
"Absolutely."   
  
Shaking his head, Clark shook the potatoes off the spoon and moved on to the gravy. "I'm still skeptical. I want to see for myself."  
  
"He's staying over tonight with Chloe and Pete." Martha explained to Jonathan's puzzled expression. "At the Randolph place." She paused and said: "You never told me it looked at you. Why you? Why would it know you?"   
  
Jonathan shrugged uneasily, and appeared slightly sheepish. "I don't like to think about it. Laugh at me if you will, but I will never forget that night. You'll never see me setting foot on that property let alone in the house itself."   
  
"But why you?" Martha repeated.   
  
"Well, its not common knowledge...." he hesitated. "Violet was grandad's cousin. There were a lot more Kents around town in those days than there are now. We were all related. I think somehow the ghost knew that." He stopped, gave Clark a scowl and pointed with his laden fork. "You be careful."  
  
Clark grinned. "Don't worry dad, if we have to run away from a vengeful ghost, he'll catch Pete and Chloe before he catches me."  
  
  
*********************************  
  
Clark trudged down the road from the Kent farm, past the Lang property (where he slowed to a crawl just in case Lana should appear) and on through the woods to the Randolph house. He could have quickened his pace and been there already, but he was full and feeling rather lazy. Additionally, it was a beautiful night with an almost full moon and hundreds of stars were visible in the dark folds of the sky above him. He took his time, gazing up at the all too familiar constellations, and wondered what it would look like if he were out there looking down from somewhere else. He tried, in vain, to recall something, anything, from before his earliest memories of Martha Kent's sweet smile. Nothing came to him.   
  
The echoing roar of an engine drew his attention back down to the roadway just in time to see a low slung, black silhouette tear by him traveling the opposite direction. He frowned, but did not stop nor turn around, even after he heard the screech of the brakes and the transmission shifting into reverse. Presently the car appeared again, this time going Clark's direction, on the correct side of the road, but facing backwards. If another car came up "behind" it, its headlights would be shining into the windshield. It kept pace with Clark's strides, moving steadily backwards, and Clark heard the whir of the window lowering.  
  
"Running away from home Dorothy?"  
  
"Trying to wreck another car?"  
  
Lex Luthor laughed. "No."  
  
"You're facing backwards."  
  
Lex's mobile face twisted into a look of mock surprise. "No? Really? You're so astute Clark!" He jiggled the wheel and the Ferarri did neat little backwards serpentines across both lanes before resuming its original position of keeping a pace with Clark. "Where are you going? Need a lift?"  
  
Grinning, Clark shook his head. "Do you think I would get into a car with you? Who would rescue us if you dumped it in the river?"   
  
"Very funny."  
  
"I'm spending the night at the Randolph house." Clark stopped walking and Lex brought the car to a halt.   
  
One pale red-brown eyebrow went up. "Oh really? Alone?"  
  
"With Chloe and Pete."   
  
Lex's thoughts turned inward and he was silent for a moment, something which Clark was becoming accustomed to the further along their friendship progressed. Despite the fact that Lex had an extremely expressive face, due in part by the lack of the distraction of hair, he tended to be difficult to read at times. When he grew contemplative was one such time. It made Clark rather uneasy for reasons he couldn't quite define.   
  
A slow smile crept across Lex's lips. "And you didn't invite Lana?"  
  
Clark's dark brows drew together. "No, why?"  
  
"Think about it Clark, what do girls do when they get scared?"  
  
"Scream," was the prompt reply.   
  
Lex appeared exasperated. He shook his head and laughed. "No! They cling to the nearest guy! You could be in for a night of serious groping and clutching Clark." He raised his voice in, surprisingly, a very good imitation of Lana. "Clark, I'm scared, put your arm around me. Hold me close."   
  
Clark laughed.   
  
"Its not too late, you can turn around and go knocking on her door..." Lex grinned. "Come on Clark."  
  
"Huhuh. Chloe would kill me. She takes her 'missions' very seriously." He paused and flashed a silly grin. "Nice idea though. Maybe I'll have to plan a second sleep over for a later date." He glanced down the road and saw the distant glow of a car's headlights. "There's a car coming."  
  
"Yeah I know." Lex ignored it; remained idling. "What happens if the ghost turns up?"  
  
"You don't believe that too do you?" Clark kept one wary eye on the approaching car.   
  
"Not in the slightest."   
  
"Finally, someone with reason."   
  
"I tried to buy the property last year actually. Thought it would be a good place for a strip mall. It's so close to those housing developments that it would be a nice little profit making sideline." he shrugged. "The old witch at the Historical Society chased me out with her broomstick."   
  
"Uh - Lex...."  
  
"Best way to get rid of the ghost is to bulldoze that old wreck of a house."   
  
"Lex, the car...."   
  
The oncoming car had rounded the curve in the road, and now very clearly they could see its headlights coming straight for the front end of the Ferarri. Clark tensed, every muscle poised in case he would find himself needing to dash out between the two vehicles to prevent the collision. He need not have worried.   
  
With a broad smile that ended in the slightest of smirks, Lex jammed his foot down on the clutch, threw the transmission into gear, and with its tires screaming, the sleek black car launched itself forward into the proper lane. Clark held his breath as its nose shot by the front bumper of the oncoming truck with only a few short yards to spare. The driver of the truck leaned on the horn as the Ferarri vanished around the bend.   
  
Clark shook his head. "He's determined to give me a heart attack." he muttered.   
  
****************************  
  
Clark jogged up the long curving drive of the Randolph house at something a little more than human speed. Along either side of him the trees rose up over the drive like the walls of a dark green tunnel, blotting out the stars above with their spreading branches. The warm spring day had turned into a cool evening, and patchy fog wove itself among the tree trunks like so many little will o' wisps, making for quite a creepy night to go ghost hunting. Recalling an article that said the ghost of the foreman Douglas was sometimes spotted wandering the grounds, Clark slowed his pace and looked carefully into the trees. He saw nothing unusual.   
  
He reduced his speed to a slow walk upon reaching the last bend of the drive, beyond which the lane opened up into a broad expanse of lawn that had once been carefully landscaped and tended. Now, however, it was a tangle of crabgrass and weeds, with a few rusting barrels lying abandoned along the edges despite a "No Dumping" sign posted on a nearby tree. There, in all its dilapidated glory, loomed the hulking dark bulk of the Randolph farmhouse. Parked in front, a bright spot in an otherwise grey and gloomy scene, was a little red Honda with a sagging back bumper.  
  
Clark glanced at his watch. Late again.  
  
He looked up at the house.   
  
It stared back.   
  
The windows were dark, all the glass long gone, and the black empty squares were like eyes staring out into the sky; eyes with no life left in them. One corner of the second floor roof had collapsed inward, half closing the window "eye" below it so that it appeared to be winking. Red-orange bricks from the ruined chimney on that side lay scattered about the remaining portion of the roof; strangely bright against the dark grey of the shingles. The porch roof sagged alarmingly over the grand wrap around, which sported several ominous looking holes in the planking. The front steps were gone, and the tower side of the house appeared to be suffering from some "sinking" foundation problems.   
  
Clark thought about his cozy bedroom at home, and sighed.   
  
Then his eyes narrowed, and a smirk that would have made Lex Luthor proud crossed his lips. He shouldered the sleeping bag, and exploded in an all out run up to the back of Chloe's car, giving it a quick "bounce" as he passed behind it. The back end sunk, sprang upwards with a squeal of protest from the springs, and by the time Chloe and Pete turned with muffled cries of alarm, Clark was gone. He watched them stare frantically out the back window as he repeated the "bounce" on the front end.   
  
He had to give Pete credit for not screaming. Chloe certainly did, but she also shot out of the driver's side door with a Louisville Slugger clutched in her hands and a murderous expression in her eyes. Pete staggered out looking absolutely petrified, but he made not a sound. He circled around backwards towards Chloe, never once letting his eyes leave the ominous presence of the house. He bumped into her eventually, nearly loosing his head to her startled bat attack, and the two of them looked into each other's widened eyes.   
  
Then they heard Clark chuckling.  
  
It echoed spookily in the silence of the yard beneath the looming house. He sat in front of the car on a pile of rock that had once been a fieldstone retaining wall for a patch of garden. The tangled vines of unkempt roses formed a dark backdrop against which Clark's red sweater looked like a bloodstain, and Chloe shuddered when she saw him there.   
  
"You idiot," she growled. "Just because you are a raging skeptic doesn't mean we are. You could have frightened us to death."  
  
"I think Pete's still in shock."  
  
Pete blinked. "Man...." He shook his head. His hands were shaking. "That was cold Clark."   
  
"What were you going to do Chloe? Challenge the ghost to a baseball game?" Clark's grin broadened. "What's the bat for?"  
  
"Luckily for you, not to bash your head in, smarty." She shouldered her weapon and despite herself, grinned back at him. "There have been vagrants spotted around here from time to time. More mundane creepy crawlies. I brought it for self defense."  
  
Clark looked over at the house and cocked his head slightly. "Well there's nobody in there now," he said quietly, then quickly glanced back at her. "If there ever was, you scared them off with that banshee shriek you let loose."  
  
"Here." Chloe handed him the bat as she went back to the car and pulled out her sleeping bag, backpack, and the camera bag and tripod. Clark once again found himself in charge of the backpack, while Pete distributed flashlights. Pete had brought his sleeping bag and a large plastic grocery bag full of food and soda. Upon Chloe's questioning look he explained: "I eat when I'm nervous. So what."   
  
The three of them stared at the front door of the house, which was perhaps the only part of it to have weathered the long years of neglect in decent shape. It was of a beautifully carved oak, with a large oval window made of thick leaded glass that seemed amazingly intact save for a few minor dings and one small crack. A large brass handle had once held the door firmly closed, but that had long ago vanished and now it hung slightly ajar. The dark crack that lead into the house beckoned.   
  
"Well?" Clark said. "Lead on Chloe. This is your show."   
  
"Hmm, maybe you should go first Clark."   
  
He looked down at her and held back a wry smile. "Scared?"  
  
"No. I don't like the looks of the porch. If it doesn't give way under you, it won't when we walk over it. Right Pete."  
  
"Right. You go first Clark." Pete agreed.  
  
"Oh, I get it. So I get to fall through the floor and break a leg." Clark nodded. "Uhhuh. I see how you are." As he spoke he put a foot up on the edge of the porch where the steps had once been, and gave a little hop up. The boards groaned, but held.   
  
"You've never broken a bone in your life Clark." Frowning at the iffy floorboards Pete handed Clark his gear.   
  
"There's always a first, and besides, I did once - when I was five I broke a toe." He neglected to mention that it had taken a fall out of the barn loft to accomplish it, and had very badly frightened his mother. He'd actually landed, quite cat-like, on his feet but off balance, and his right pinkie toe had taken the brunt of the impact.   
  
Chloe bit her lip as she watched Clark navigate around the worst of the rotten boards and those that looked as if someone had already fallen through them. "Be careful. If you do fall through the floor and break a leg we'll never be able to haul you out. You just had to inherit the Jolly Green Giant gene didn't you."  
  
Clark paused with a hand on the door and looked back at her. "Ho ho ho."   
  
"Knock it off - oh wait do you have the camera?"   
  
"Yes Chloe."  
  
"If you see any ghosts make sure you get a picture before you come tearing back out okay?" In her nervousness Chloe hopped on one foot, her blond bob bouncing around her ears. "And don't fall through the floor."   
  
"He's so going to fall through the floor." Pete mumbled.  
  
Clark glared at him. "I'm not going to fall through the floor!"   
  
If they expected a frightening creak when the front door swung open they were sorely disappointed. As Clark gave it a shove, the heavy door swung open with the silent whisper of a cats soft tread across a carpet; it made hardly a sound at all. He snapped on the flashlight, ducked the tatters of an old cobweb hanging from the top of the door, and slipped inside. As he vanished from view, Chloe held her breath.  
  
Inside Clark gave the floor a quick scan, peering carefully at the floorboards and the joists that supported them from beneath. Aside from one spot near the corner of the great room where the roof apparently leaked, the floor seemed more than able to support weight. Just to make sure, however, that his vision was not playing tricks (he still didn't quite trust it) he walked across the great room floor a couple of times, his boots clomping loudly across the wooden planks. The sound echoed in the large empty room, bouncing off walls covered in moldering wallpaper that had once been quite opulent.   
  
Satisfied that nobody was going to fall through the floor, Clark dropped the backpack and his sleeping bag near the fireplace and headed back towards the door. At the base of the wide sweeping staircase that led up to the second floor, he suddenly stopped, and looked up towards the balcony that overlooked the main foyer and the great room beyond. He raised the flashlight, shining the beam across the elegantly turned railing above his head.  
  
"Yeah, you only had one beer dad," he murmured, staring at the railing with a small smile. No ghosts were in sight.  
  
Yet, as he looked at it, he was overcome by a sensation he was very well familiar with and one that could not be easily ignored - curiosity - and the desire to have a closer look at that railing. So instead of turning right, which would take him out the door again and onto the porch, he turned left, and after a quick survey of the underpinnings of the stair treads, he ran up to the top. There he stopped, and shone the flashlight up and down the hallway, picking up only shadows from the two rooms that had doors swung open. No ghosts. Not even a mouse. He looked down over the edge of the stairs into the great room and saw only his gear laying beside the hearth, then, with a shrug, he headed across the balcony towards the center of the railing.   
  
The carpet beneath his feet was slippery, rotting from the damp, and sent up swirls of mildew spoors with every step as well as the horrible stench of decaying wool. Clark wrinkled his nose, and tried to walk only along the edges. This brought him closer to the railing, and as he traveled its length he ran his fingers across its dusty surface, marveling at how smooth the polished wood felt. The house had been a showcase once, and he agreed with Martha that it was shameful it had been allowed to fall into such a decrepit state. This thought brought to him a pang of guilt, but it was quickly dismissed when something else caught his attention: a depression in the wood of the rail beneath his fingers.   
  
Clark stopped, and brought up the flashlight. It was hard to see, easy to feel, but there in the wood of the rail was a groove about the width of two fingers. It was sunk in to the depth of about a quarter inch and went from the back side of the wide rail, over the top, and, to a lesser degree, over the front side. Clark peered over the edge, shining the flashlight down against the spindles, and saw that two of them were cracked as if they had been struck by something heavy. This then, was where Gerard Randolph had hung himself.   
  
Chloe's voice, sounding worried, floated up from below. "Clark?"  
  
He opened his mouth to answer, and that was as far as he got.   
  
There was a loud bang, as if a door had been blown open or shut, and Clark felt a distinct draft of cold air rushing down the hallway. He straightened, half turning to look for whatever had made the sound, and felt someone's two hands hit him right between the shoulder blades. With a startled cry he flipped over the balcony rail head first.   
  
It was over in less than a second. Clark lost his grip on the flashlight as he made a mad grab for the spindles with both hands, and the light beam flashed wildly around the room like a strobe as it fell with a clatter to the floor below. He grabbed for something, anything, with which he could stop the fall but failed. His fingers slipped off the spindles in a near miss and he tumbled head over heels towards the floor, hitting it with a crash and raising a cloud of dust. The joists groaned beneath him and for a moment he wondered if he were indeed going to fall through the floor.  
  
It held. Clark sighed.  
  
He lay there on his back for a moment, listening as Chloe yelled frantically for him to answer her and Pete's shoes pounded across the porch. He stared at the balcony above him.  
  
Nobody was there.   
  
********************   
  
Sprawled on the floor like the spokes of a wheel, Chloe, Pete and Clark lay in front of the fireplace playing poker by the light of an electric camping lantern. It was well into the night, and the moonlight no longer came through the windows of the great room to provide any extra illumination. The only light came from the lantern, and it cast eerie shadows all along the walls behind them, making at least two of them loath to look anywhere but at the center of their hub. It was very quiet save for their soft voices and the the slap of the cards on the floor.   
  
Clark discarded two cards and Pete dealt him two more. He was still smarting from the tongue lashing he'd received for not only scaring Chloe but breaking one of the flashlights. (Luckily he'd left Chloe's beloved digital camera with the backpack when he'd gone up the stairs.) He'd explained, rather badly, that he'd tripped on a loose floorboard, dropped the flashlight and knocked the wind out of himself. What exactly had happened he was still trying to figure out, and occasionally he stopped to look over his shoulder at the balcony. Nothing appeared, and attempts to really "look" beyond the walls of the rooms upstairs failed as the light decreased. Infrared vision would have been much more useful.  
  
With this thought in mind Clark resisted the temptation to look at Chloe's hand. They were playing for tortilla chips and she was winning, although her pile of poker "chips" seemed to be shrinking instead of growing. Whenever her attention was elsewhere both Clark and Pete ate some of her winnings. She had not yet noticed their thieving.   
  
"I call."  
  
"Full House." Pete crowed, grinning as he laid his hand down for all to see.  
  
Clark scowled. "I fold. I've got nothing."  
  
"Royal flush. I win." Chloe scooped up the chips and added them to her pile, her eyes crinkling closed as she smiled and stuck her tongue out at Pete.   
  
Clark took the opportunity to pilfer a handful from the pile, shooting a grin at Pete over Chloe's head as he did it, then gathered up the cards and began idly shuffling them in preparation for his turn to deal. A quick glance at his watch told him it was just one, an hour beyond the "witching hour". The deepest part of the night was still yet to come. He was beginning to believe he'd imagined the whole incident along the balcony and that somehow he'd simply lost his balance after being startled by a wind blown door. It had been very quiet and uneventful for hours.  
  
Chloe sneezed. "This place needs a visit from Merry Maids." She shifted her position on the sleeping bag, making sure, for the hundreth time, that her camera was in grabbing range. Above her, slightly off to the left of the fireplace, another camera was set up facing the doorway to the parlor, which opened up like a dark maw behind her. Clark had been keeping an eye on that room -where Douglas had been killed - during the time they'd been playing cards, but he'd seen only a rat sniffing around the wainscoting. He did not inform Chloe about that tidbit.   
  
"Among other things." Pete agreed, glancing uneasily around the room. "It would make a good do it yourself project: welcome to This Old Dump."   
  
Clark chuckled, began dealing the cards, and blessed Chloe as she sneezed again.   
  
"Plit."  
  
The three of them froze.   
  
There, on the back of Clark's outstretched hand, was a small crimson spot. Comically, they stared at it for what seemed for a long time before Clark withdrew his hand and ran a finger over it. The spot was wet, and streaked across his skin in a red smear.   
  
"Oh man....." Pete breathed.  
  
"You cut yourself." Chloe said, not quite convincingly. "When you fell."   
  
"No, I didn't." Clark wiped the back of his hand on a corner of his sleeping bag. There was no cut beneath the blood smear; if it was blood.   
  
"Plit."  
  
Another drop appeared, this time in the center of the hub of cards Clark had just dealt onto the floor before them. As they stared at it in disbelief, a third drop fell, and with that they all sprang backwards to sit up. Chloe grabbed her camera, took a picture of the spots, and closed the gap between herself and Clark, one hand groping for and catching hold of, his sleeve. Immediately he thought of Lex's imitation of Lana, and suppressed a wan smile.   
  
"Is it blood?"  
  
Looking up towards the ceiling, Clark could make out nothing out of the ordinary, but as he did so yet a fourth droplet pattered down upon the floor. At the same time, from upstairs, there came a deep, echoing clang, as if someone had closed a very large, very heavy door. The sound reverberated throughout the house, causing dust and cobwebs to filter down around them from above. It repeated once, then slowly faded.   
  
Yet as this first sound dispersed another began to override it. This new sound was soft, barely there, like the whisper of a summer breeze at the curtains of an open window. Breathy and weak, but very clear, it sifted down from the second floor and raised the hair on the back of Clark's neck.  
  
It was the sound of a child crying.  
  
Clark felt Chloe's grip on him tighten and he looked down at her to find her looking up at him. They locked gazes for perhaps a heartbeat, and then they both grabbed for the flashlights. Chloe snatched up her camera and with Clark leading, they headed for the stairs to investigate the source of both the blood and the crying; leaving Pete standing alone by the fireplace.  
  
"Are you crazy!!" Pete's terrified paralysis broke then, and he snatched at Chloe's coat tails as she went by, bringing her up short. He caught up to her as she hesitated and they glared at each other. "You aren't going up there?" Incredulous, he stared at Chloe, then Clark, and back to Chloe. "I vote we go home, right now!" His voice was rough, frightened, and quiet. Upstairs the crying continued.   
  
"Its probably just a cat." Clark shrugged. "When they get going they sound like babies sometimes." He grinned. "Come on Pete, you know there are millions of feral cats out here!"   
  
"And the blood?"  
  
"The roof leaks. It's probably rust from the pipes." Chloe returned, and she too grinned. "But if its a ghost, I'm getting its picture."   
  
"Count me out! I'm not going up there."   
  
"Stay here then. Alone."   
  
"Chloe...Clark come on man, back me up!" Pete looked imploringly up at his friend, his eyes begging for the words: "Oh sure, I'll stay here with you and let Chloe go ghost hunting by herself."   
  
Clark clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Pete. Trust me. There are no such things as ghosts. Besides. If we find a ghost we'll give it Chloe to play with while we make our exits."  
  
"Gee thanks."  
  
"Virgin sacrifice."  
  
Chloe whacked him with the flashlight. "Shut up. You're one to talk." She scowled. She'd cracked the flashlight's plastic case. "Now see what you did."  
  
"You hit me!"  
  
The loud echoing boom they'd heard before repeated itself, and the faint crying sound increased in pitch as if the child were also quite frightened. Pete took a step closer to his companions and the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder (at least Pete and Chloe did) staring silently at the staircase that beckoned before them. The air had grown colder as the night grew longer, but as they stood there all three could feel the breath of a colder draft of air drifting towards them from down the long flight of stairs.   
  
"Okay," Clark breathed after a moment. "We really have to go up there, if nothing else, to shut up whatever it is so that we can get some sleep."  
  
Both Pete and Chloe turned to stare at him.  
  
"What?" he demanded.  
  
"You think we're actually going to sleep in this place?"  
  
Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Clark flipped on his flashlight and strode off towards the dark stairs. "I'm going."  
  
Pete and Chloe immediately followed him.   
  
As Clark had done earlier, they quietly crept up the gently curving sweep of the staircase to the second floor. Mindful of what had happened to him, Clark made sure he was closest to the railing, just in case the whatever-it-was repeated itself and someone got pitched over the edge. Pete stayed close between Clark and Chloe, as he did not have a flashlight and was loathe to leave the comforting presence of the light.   
  
The room at the opposite end of the long stretch of balcony seemed to the the source of the crying sound, and it was the room directly over their "camp". Quietly they followed the rotting carpet down along the railing towards the open door of that room, gradually feeling the cool air growing even colder. Oddly enough the crying did not seem to alter in volume, despite the fact that they seemed to be getting closer to its source. This struck Clark as odd, but he did not mention it. He concluded that if he did, he would very likely loose his companions as they turned tail back down the stairs.   
  
Chloe had a fist wrapped around the tail of Clark's sweater as they progressed slowly down the hall, and halfway across he stopped, looking down at her. "Chloe."  
  
She looked up, her eyes huge. "What?" she whispered.  
  
"You have to let go. If we do run into something I have to be able to move. Hang on to Pete."  
  
"Oh no!" Pete shook his head rapidly back and forth. "Don't hang on to me. If we run into anything I'm moving too - right down the stairs and out that door!" He threw one hand back, pointing at the front door.  
  
  
"Oh, so if Clark gets in trouble and needs your help, you're just going to run away and leave him?" Chloe let go of Clark and put both hands on her hips. "Some friend you are..."  
  
"Hey, this wasn't my big idea! You help him."  
  
"Pete...."  
  
Chloe broke off abruptly. From the end of the hallway, where the door to their destination stood wide open, there came a quiet creaking sound. As they turned their attention back to the room they saw the door move. Silently, slowly, it swung towards them, and with a quiet "snick" it shut, causing a swirl of dust to rise into the air. The crying stopped, and oddly enough the following silence was perhaps more frightening.   
  
Clark and Chloe exchanged glances. Raising his flashlight, Clark focused the beam on the door and "looked" beyond it, almost positive he would see nothing other than an open window and a stray cat.   
  
He saw nothing but the door.   
  
More precisely, he saw the door, and could not see past it.   
  
Puzzled, he shook his head, and blinked. The door remained closed and quite solid. He turned to Chloe and looked at her (discovering in the process that she had once broken her collarbone) to make sure his vision wasn't malfunctioning. Everything seemed completely normal, except that he absolutely could not see past that door. Now more than ever he felt he had to venture inside the room, if nothing more than to simply quell his own curiosity about it.   
  
"All the glass is broken out of the windows," he said quietly, continuing towards the door. "And old houses settle in weird ways. There are no such things as ghosts."  
  
"You sound like you are trying to convince yourself of that Clark." Pete whispered from beside him.   
  
"I'm not sure I'm not," he returned, and put his hand on the doorknob.  
  
This time the door did open with a creak - a chilling, high pitched cry like that of a dying rabbit. It rose screaming from the hinges and made Clark wince as it reached up into the highest audio ranges only he seemed to be able to hear. It stopped when the door had swung open to its fullest, much to Clark's relief, and he sighed as he looked into nothing but an ordinary room, empty of anything at all. A breeze drifted through the broken windows.   
  
"See. It was only the wind...." Clark turned with a grin. "P....."  
  
The grin faded abruptly.  
  
Of Pete and Chloe there were no sign. Instead, standing in the doorway, was the faint outline of a dark clad male figure. He stood nose to nose with Clark, and his eyes glittered ominously as he stared straight into Clark's. His mouth moved, and no words could be heard, but Clark saw the anger in his expression. He was there only a nanosecond, and before even Clark could react (and he was very definitely poised on the verge of bolting) the door slammed shut, trapping Clark alone in the room. Outside he heard Pete shout, followed by the heart stopping scream of a frightened girl.   
  
"Chloe!"   
  
Clark grabbed for the doorknob, frantic to get out. His heart was pounding as he envisioned Chloe or Pete falling over the railing or being somehow attacked by the mysterious man. His hand closed over the knob and he turned it, pulling at the door with enough force that it should have come flying off its hinges.   
  
It didn't. It didn't even open.   
  
Had he not been so terribly frightened (and he admitted he was terribly frightened) Clark would have been completely struck dumb by the fact the door remained in its frame. He was much too scared, and much too rattled, to even think about it. Instead he renewed his efforts, tugging at the door again, and then turning his shoulder into it, all the while calling to his friends. He heard the scream again just as his shoulder hit the door - hard - and he braced himself to go flying through it into the hallway.   
  
The door hit back, refusing to break. Clark bounced off of its unwielding surface, hitting the floor with a bone jarring thud and a deep throated growl of fury. Instantly he was back on his feet, and he whirled around the room, totally convinced there had to be meteor fragments about somewhere despite the fact he had no symptoms of the "illness" they brought about. He heard Chloe scream a third time and he clenched his fists.  
  
"Let me out!" he roared.   
  
There was a rush of bitterly cold air and a loud banging sound, but the door remained firmly shut. Clark could almost sense the mockery of whoever (or whatever) prevented him from getting through it. Infuriated and rather desperate, he turned to the window and wasted no time making his decision.   
  
He was there in two long strides, pushing off the creaking floor with all his strength, just in case the window somehow proved as stubborn as the door. His body struck the wooden frame and the few clinging remnants of glass they held, and it all exploded outwards from the back of the house with an echoing crash. Clark twisted in the air, eyes closed, feeling the broken wood and glass swirling around him as he started to fall towards the ground. His leg struck an old grape arbor, smashing it, and he landed face down in the overgrown remains of a kitchen garden in the back yard, momentarily breathless.   
  
Not for long. He turned, his gaze finding the hole he'd made in the window.   
  
The man stood there, looking down at him.   
  
Clark launched himself to his feet, not sparing the apparition a second glance, and ran around to the front of the house and inside once again; all in a blur of speed that he thought must have been a personal best record time. He was at the top of the stairs just as Chloe and Pete were turning around to come back down them, and he stood staring at them as they jumped in surprise at his sudden appearance.   
  
They seemed perfectly fine and not particularly alarmed; simply confused.  
  
"How did you...." Chloe began, but Clark ignored her.  
  
He brushed past her to the door, grabbed the knob, and this time flung it open so hard it smashed against the wall inside and fell off the shattered hinges. It hung, suspended against the wall for a moment, then slowly tipped forward to crash into the dusty floor with a bang.   
  
The room was empty except for the flashlight Clark had dropped in his frantic attempts to get the door open. It was still lit, and the beam shot out over the floor towards the broken window and the gaping hole in its framing Clark had made. The only footprints in the dust were his own, and there was no one in the room. Silence hung around them, broken only by Clark's harsh breathing as he tried to make sense of what had happened and what he'd seen. It had to be him, he decided. Something was going hay-wire in his wacky alien head and he didn't like it at all.   
  
He turned to Chloe. "I heard you scream, three times."  
  
She shook her head. "I called you, but I didn't scream. We couldn't hear you at all, and we couldn't get the door open. Where did you go? How did you get back out?"  
  
Pete cautiously retrieved the flashlight and hurried back out just in case the broken door were to pick itself up again and shut him inside. "Yeah Clark, how did you get out?"  
  
Clark hesitated, looking back to the sight of the empty room. "I climbed down the drain pipe...look....there is someone else in this house." Shaking his head, he nodded at the room. "I saw a man in there...."  
  
"You saw the ghost?" Chloe's eyes went wide.   
  
"That's it. I'm going home..."  
  
"Yes - no - I don't know what I saw." Clark ran his hands through his hair and shook the dust out of it. "A man, in a suit, standing at door. Then when I was outside, he was looking out the window at me."   
  
"That sounds like Ger...."   
  
Pete clamped a hand over Chloe's mouth. "Don't say it." He said quietly. "Do you want him to hear you?"   
  
Chloe pushed him off irritably. "Yes! I want to take his picture! If he shows up, and I get a picture, then we can go home."  
  
"I want to go home now."   
  
Clark agreed with Pete this time, but didn't say anything. He was quite concerned that he was having some sort of new "gift" manifestation and he really didn't want to deal with it in front of Pete and Chloe. In short, he wanted his mother. If anyone could make sense of the crazy things that had happened it would be level headed Martha Kent, and Clark wished she were around at the moment. Of course the other theory, that he had really seen the ghost of Gerard Randolph, was not sitting well with him either. A mental image of his bed, with him in it, cowering under the quilt, was quite comforting.   
  
He sighed finally. "The noise has stopped at any rate. Let's just go back down stairs and...." He frowned as he looked up at Chloe, who was standing slack jawed staring at a point somewhere behind him. "What?"  
  
Pete too was staring at Chloe, but he turned his head and followed her gaze and flinched noticeably at what he saw. "Clark!" His voice cracked as he pointed with the flashlight towards the top of the stairs.  
  
Clark turned around, every nerve on high alert and every muscle tense.   
  
Now he knew it wasn't just his own perceptions playing tricks on him, not if Chloe and Pete were seeing what he saw at the top of the stairs. It was the same man he'd seen earlier. He was again looking rather angry, with a dark smoldering fury in his glittering eyes and upon his only semi-opaque face. He was middle aged, dressed in a suit with an old fashioned cut, and this time he carried in his hands the curved outline of a pick axe. He was also coming at them at a very good clip, preceded by a blast of very cold air that chilled even Clark's arctic constitution.   
  
It was Clark's first instinct to tuck Pete under one arm, Chloe under the other, and run like hell. In fact he was very close to doing just that when the flash from Chloe's camera distracted him and he realized Plan B would be far more feasible. Chloe and Pete must be protected, and thus Clark would have to confront the "ghost" himself and make sure it got nowhere near his friends. It was not a comforting thought, but he saw no other options.   
  
Aside, of course, from running like hell.   
  
"You got your picture, lets go!" Pete's voice echoed stridently across the balcony as Clark took a step towards the on coming figure.   
  
"Clark don't!"   
  
He reached out a hand as if to grab the handle of the axe.  
  
It closed around nothing.  
  
The ghost walked into him. A thousand tiny, red hot needles of pain stabbed him, and his body shuddered. He could not speak. He could not move....  
  
Chloe screamed. "Clark!"   
  
Distantly he realized that his knees were buckling, but he could do nothing as the world tipped sideways, then went completely askew......  
  
......righting itself in a burst of bright light and a surge of violent anger.   
  
The house was brightly lit. A beautiful crystal chandelier hanging above the foyer brightened the balcony with the fiery glow of dozens of little gas-fueled lamps. The polished mahogany wood gleamed red in the light, and the rich jeweled tones of the carpeting beneath his feet were deepened further. It was a beautiful house. It was the most beautiful house of its kind in Kansas.   
  
He had built this house for her. He had filled it with the finest furnishings by the best artisans that money could buy and given her anything else she could ever desire. All he asked for in return was her respect. Respect. Not even love. All he wanted was her respect, and now she threw that up in his face. How dare she! His heirs were not even his own! His hopes and dreams of the future were shattered. His love for her utterly destroyed. How dare she!  
  
The red hot fury engulfed him again as it had done moments ago in the drawing room, leaving behind it a body growing cold upon a bloodstained carpet. She had loved that? Given up her marriage for an idiot farmer? Well she could join him in the grave, and with them, their bastard children. He was done with them. He would not support them. He would not allow them to live. He ground his teeth, tightening his grip on the pick axe, as he heard her voice from the nursery speaking softly to the child playing there. His pace quickened.   
  
He stopped in the doorway, his weapon held before him, and watched her smile mutate into a look of horror as she saw him. Her beauty, as always, captivated him and he could do nothing for the moment but stare at her. Her blue silk dressing gown, his favorite, brought out the color of her eyes and the bright gold of her curling blond hair. With her fair skin, and the pale pink blush of her cheeks, she looked like a china doll sitting before him. She held her two year old son, a carbon copy of herself, upon her lap.   
  
"You have won the heart of the perfect woman." The townspeople had told him. "Violet Kent will never do you wrong."  
  
They had lied.   
  
The fury returned. Raising the pick axe, he rushed forward with a growl, hearing Violet scream. When the sharp point of the axe found her it would be over. He swung it over his head, and with all his strength brought it down.....  
  
"THWAP."  
  
Time stopped.   
  
There was another person in the room, and this stranger's hand, wrapped securely around the handle of the axe, had stopped it from falling. Piercing grey-green eyes were almost inhuman in their intensity beneath dark brows. He held the axe, and he spoke. His voice was steady and the tone was not one that brooked disobedience; yet he said only one word.  
  
"No."   
  
And suddenly, it was all over.   
  
Gerard Randolph let out a sob as the insane fury ran out of his body in a rush.   
  
"I finally got the message." The stranger whispered. The eyes softened, and the grip upon the axe handle loosened ever so slightly.   
  
"Its truly over?"  
  
"It is. The cycle is broken."  
  
Gerard closed his eyes.  
  
"She's waiting."   
  
He opened his eyes again. The axe was gone, and so was the stranger, replaced only by a room filled with brilliant white light - and her.   
  
"Gerard?" She said softly.   
  
Her eyes were gentle, and the same pretty blue he remembered. Her long hair swirled around white clad shoulders and she smiled at him. In that smile was understanding, and more than that, the forgiveness for which he had suffered so long to acquire. She loved him. She had always loved him, and he knew that now. There had been no affair. The son she'd borne, and the child she'd been carrying, had been his. It was all clear now that it was over, and his heart ached for what could have been.   
  
"Violet." He reached out and took her hand, and she soothed the ache away.   
  
The light started to fade, and Gerard heard her voice as the comforting darkness surrounded him. She did not address him, but rather he who had given them their freedom at last. The last syllable echoed:  
  
"Thank you, Kal-El...el...el...el..."  
  
".....ark!"   
  
He moaned.  
  
"Clark!"  
  
Gasping, Clark sat up, very nearly knocking heads with Chloe who was sitting beside him looking down into his face with an expression of concern. It was very dark, the carpet he sat upon stank, and he had to fight the urge to throw up as a wave of dizziness hit him in the stomach like a cannonball. He blinked rapidly. The house was as it had been when they first arrived - decrepit and run down, with no sign of the beautiful furnishings or the bright crystal chandelier.   
  
"What happened?"  
  
Pete, standing in front of him, smiled. "You fainted."  
  
Clark scowled. "I did not."  
  
Chloe bit her lip, gently brushed his hair from his eyes. "Actually, you did. As soon as you reached out your hand the ghost, or whatever it was, disappeared. Your eyes rolled backwards and bam, down you went." A nervous giggle escaped her. "Do you still doubt the existence of spirits?"  
  
"No," he grumbled. "But I didn't faint." Chloe helped him get to his feet and he brushed himself off, pausing for a quick sneeze.   
  
"Bless you, and yes you did."   
  
Pete chuckled.  
  
Clark fixed him with a stony glare. "If you say one word at school about this Pete Ross, I will never speak to you again."   
  
"Are you okay?" Chloe fixed him with a look, studying his face for any signs that he was going to collapse on her again. "Really Clark. You turned as white as a sheet when you passed out. I think that scared me more than the ghost did."  
  
"I'm fine." He managed to give her a wavering smile. "Really."  
  
He wasn't quite sure what had happened. Its possible that he had dreamed it all, but somehow he didn't think that was the case; mainly because he could still recall the scent of the roses from Violet Randolph's perfume and hear the rustle of her satin dressing gown upon the wool carpeting. Somehow Clark had stopped Gerard from going through with the killing again, disrupting the endless cycle he'd been cursed to repeat since the actual events occurred. Somehow Clark had made contact with another plane of existence.  
  
Or it had made contact with him.   
  
Great. Now he was a medium. What the hell was next? Breathing fire?  
  
He shuddered.   
  
"I'm taking you home." Chloe said finally. "You don't look so good."  
  
Nodding, Clark agreed. He wanted out of this house with its tattered and faded glory and the painful memories of grief and despair. Chloe had gotten her picture, proven to Clark that some things were beyond a simple explanation, and the frightening house now seemed only sad to him. He felt drained. He wanted to go home. He followed Chloe and Pete down the stairs, only once looking back towards the open room, which remained empty. He knew it would now remain so.   
  
A little later, as he sat crammed into the back seat of Chloe's car, fighting off weariness brought on by a lot of stress and worry, not to mention the late hour; it suddenly occurred to him that Violet had called him by name....  
  
....and it hadn't been "Clark."  
  
His stomach did a slow queasy roll.   
  
"Chloe! Pull over. I'm think I'm gonna be sick...."  
  
  
************************  
  
Clark cut biology on Monday.   
  
He would have liked to stayed home all day, and that morning made a futile attempt to play sick, but Martha overruled him. "Almost" throwing up and "maybe" fainting were weak excuses, not to mention the fact that she knew he never (damn the iron constitution) came down with anything. He'd seen a ghost, and because of his "gifts" it had made an impression on him, leaving him quite rattled. Martha was all for "bucking up" and getting over it, and that meant business as usual come Monday morning. She'd even given him a ride so that he could not possibly be late. If she knew he was cutting class, he would be dead meat: grounded and assigned to cleaning and disinfecting the cattle barn - at normal speed. Yuck.  
  
Clark didn't even have pictures to prove what he'd seen. The digital photos had not come out at all, leaving only dark and blurry images of a pile of cards, Clark standing in the hallway, and Pete making faces as he played with the camera in the car while they waited for Clark's arrival. Chloe had been infuriated - until she'd retrieved the 35 mm she'd had set up on the tripod near the parlor. It indicated exactly one exposure, which neither she nor Clark recalled taking. Chloe dropped the film off at the developers during her lunch hour and was also cutting her last class in order to go pick it up.   
  
Clark paused the video game as he heard her come back in, and he turned to her as she sat down beside him with a big grin on her face.  
  
"Pay dirt." she exclaimed, handing him a photograph. "Look at this."  
  
He looked.  
  
His eyes widened.  
  
"That's not what we saw!"  
  
"I know."  
  
"Who took this?"  
  
Chloe shook her head. "I have no idea."   
  
Clark looked at the photograph again.  
  
It was of the darkened rectangle of the opening to the parlor. Framed within it stood the pale figure of a woman in hoop skirts, and although she was only partially solid, the image was quite sharp. One could make out the details of the lace upon her dress, the faint golden color of her hair, and the features of her face as she half turned her head to speak to someone behind her. Clark recognized the woman immediately; it was Violet Randolph.   
  
To whom she spoke was a greater mystery. A man stood behind her, but he was only a dark shadow looming above and slightly to the side of her. No details, save one, could be made out regarding his appearance. That one little detail was only evident due to what appeared to be a draft that also rifled Violet's hair. From behind her, where it drifted forward across her white dress, a triangular shaped piece of cloth could be seen: the corner of a bright red cloak worn by the shadowy man behind her.  
  
Clark tapped a finger on the shadow. "Who's this?'  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Douglas?"  
  
Chloe shook her head. "Violet was very tall for a woman. Neither Gerard nor Douglas would stand above her like that. I have no idea who it could be." She plucked the photo out of his hand and, rising, went to the Wall of Weird. With a flourish, she added the picture to its center with a bright red push-pin. "I'm going to go find Pete. Maybe he can shed some light on this one."  
  
Clark, left alone, stared at the photograph for quite some time before he resumed his game despite the fact his heart was no longer in it. His mind kept going back to Violet Randolph, her tragic story, and now the additional mystery brought about by the photograph. The video game ceased being any sort of priority, but he felt he had to finish. He continued to play, but occasionally glanced over at the picture on the wall.  
  
His distraction proved to be fatal. Just as he reached the last level and was moments from rescuing the girl, an unsuspected enemy appeared from behind a door. Clark moved the joystick, but too late. He was immediately "killed." and the words GAME OVER, flashed across the screen. The face of one of the "aliens" appeared on the screen and laughed at him.   
  
He sighed, and put the game control down. The alien continued to mock him.  
  
After a moment, his brow furrowed.  
  
"Kal-El?" He murmured.  
  
He looked back up to the photograph.   
  
It was gone. 


End file.
